


Red and Black

by fandomtrashiness



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon Era, Character Death, Demisexual Enjolras, Enjolras' feelings, Grantaire Angst, Heavy Angst, Humiliation, Hurt, Injury, M/M, POV Enjolras, POV First Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sorry Grantaire - Freeform, Stream of Consciousness, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Violence, Whipping, Whump, enjoltaire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25986328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomtrashiness/pseuds/fandomtrashiness
Summary: The au everyone knows where they get captured at the barricade instead of immediately killed. I didn't think too hard about how it would be canon compliant, I was just focused on the angst. So yeah, if you want les amis angst and Enjolras' stream of conscienceness for about 5500 words, this is the fic for you!
Relationships: Bahorel/Feuilly (Les Misérables), Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42





	Red and Black

**Author's Note:**

> Not all of this is historically accurate, but whatever. Also, please heed the warnings! There is no rape, but there are subtle threats of it. Also, a gay slur is used.This fic is basically pure angst.

There’s a trickle of blood running from Combeferre’s lips, and his glasses are smudged. He’s holding Courfeyrac’s hand as if it is a lifeline, while silent tears roll down Courfeyrac’s face.

“He won’t talk. They’ll bring him back when they realize that.” Combeferre says firmly.

“It’s my fault.” I say morosely. “I dragged him into this, I dragged you all into this-”

“We made our own choices.” Feuilly says. “We chose to fight for what is right. We are all children of the revolution, not just you. We stand together.”

Feuilly places a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“And Grantaire believes in the cause as strongly as us.” Bahorel adds on. “He won’t talk, and he knows the cause is why we take it. The revolution, it’s worth more than life itself to all of us.”

I try to pretend I don’t hear the screams.

The pleading.

Joly has his hands over his ears, Jehan keeps wincing, Combeferre sits stoically.

I don’t think any of us expected Grantaire to scream, he’s always been able to take a lot of pain.

Even if it’s a physical toll, it’s the pleading.

Grantaire is not one to debase himself, rarely even for my sake.

Yes, he’ll go to great lengths for me, but he has never once pleaded at me.

I don’t want to imagine what is being done to him while I sit, unharmed, in this cell.

Two national guardsmen return, holding Grantaire between them, and shove him back into the cell with us.

One of them laughs as he whimpers in pain, curling in on himself.

The other scowls.

“Anyone willing to talk?” The frowning guard says.

I stand and glare at him in defiance.

“We would all sooner die than betray the name of our sacred cause, betray our patria.” I say proudly.

To my rapture, both the men look annoyed and worn out.

“We’ll give them the night to think things over.” One of them grumbles.

I stare them down until they finally leave the cell, locking the door behind them.

Joly and Courfeyrac are the first to rush to Grantaire’s side, each of them fussing over Grantaire’s many obvious injuries.

Grantaire moans in pain.

“Apollo…” He whispers softly, but we all can hear.

I move to kneel by his face, and cup his cheek gently in my hand.

“Shh…” I coo quietly, not even caring that everyone else is around to see my more tender side. All I care about is soothing Grantaire, being here for him. “R, breathe.” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and calm.

But now that I’m up close to him, I can see the extent of the damage done to him.

My grand R has been stripped to only his boxers, there’s no sign of his trousers, shirt, or waistcoat. His wrists are bound behind him with his cravat.

His face is red and raw, from hits I’m guessing. He is covered in red welts stretching from his back to the backs of his thighs. The result of a belt most likely. Blood drips down from some of the cuts, and I pray that the open wounds haven’t been contaminated with too much filth yet.

Courfeyrac is quick to unbind Grantaire’s hands while Joly gently turns him onto his stomach, muttering apologies.

“I need to clean the wounds.” Joly says, his voice distracted.

Combeferre takes the moment to take Joly’s shaking hands in his.

“We’ll examine them before bandaging them, to ensure they aren’t infected.” He says calmly, and I can tell he’s trying to help Joly match his breathing. “Bahorel has alcohol, Feuilly has water. See if Jehan has a needle and thread on him, at the very least he can tear my shirt into bandages.” Combeferre orders Joly gently, handing him his shirt, leaving him in just his waistcoat and overcoat.

Joly nods in ascent and hurries to the corner of the cell where Bahorel and Feuilly are huddled together.

Grantaire is shivering in his near-nakedness, I am quick to pull off my coat and rest it under his head.

He breathes in the scent and his shoulders relax a bit.

“Your clothes, R, do you know what the men did with them?” I ask, almost scared for the answer.

“Th-they beat me.” He says, his voice wavering slightly. He’s sober at this point, his last bottle was at the barricade, and I’m sure the beating did nothing for his hangover. “Belt.” He chokes out. “Teach the schoolboys a lesson, one of them kept saying.”   
Grantaire winces harshly as Combeferre and Joly each start pressing damp rags to his exposed back and legs.

“Is there more?” Combeferre’s question hangs in the air, his meaning plain.

Grantaire nods, and I squeeze his hand.

“Everyone look away.” I command to the room.

“Already lost my dignity at this point.” Grantaire murmurs, but everyone still obediently looks away.

“Would you prefer me or Combeferre to do it?” I ask gingerly. “There’s no wrong answer.”

“Ferre.” Grantaire whispers, his voice suddenly hoarse.

I nod, and keep holding his hand as I close my eyes.

“Tell me if you need me to stop, Grantaire.” Combeferre says in his calm voice.

I hear the rustle of fabric as Combeferre exposes Grantaire’s most private area of his body, and I also hear Combeferre’s shocked gasp at what he sees.

It takes all my effort to keep my eyes shut tight, knowing it’s the best way to help Grantaire.

“It was just the belt. They didn’t-They did not violate me.”

I sigh in relief at Grantaire’s confirmation of this.

There’s the sound of damp fabric moving, and Grantaire gives a few weak cries.

“It’s done, R.” Combeferre says, and I hear him pull the fabric back over Grantaire.

I open my eyes and see a single tear on my lover’s face, but he still tries for a smile at me.

Combeferre finishes cleaning the rest of the lashes, and bandages the few that are bleeding with torn strips of his shirt.

“Thanks.” Grantaire mumbles, sitting up.

I help him, and wrap my jacket fully around his shoulders.

Combeferre starts to rid himself of his coat, but Grantaire stops him.

“You already gave up your shit for my stupid back.” He insists.

“I don’t mind-” Combeferre starts to say, but Grantaire shakes his head.

Courfeyrac takes that moment to shed himself of his coat and lay it over Grantaire’s legs.

“It’s gonna be ok.” My centre says, managing the most convincing smile out of all of us.

I take Courfeyrac’s hand in my free one, and Combeferre takes his other.

Grantaire tries to pull away from my grasp, mumbling something quietly to me alone about how he’s not one of the three, but I hold tight.

The chief, the guide, the centre, and…

What word to describe Grantaire.

Cynic, he would say. Drunk. Whore. He has a whole slew of insults reserved for himself, but I don’t see him like that.

He believes I am Apollo, and if I am then he must be my Hycanthius.

He sees himself as nothing below me, I see myself as nothing without him.

He gives me passion, fire.

I of course had passion before him, but he brings an extra spark to my life.

More purpose than to be a martyr, the purpose to love.

He sees me as an angel, a being of pure gold and light, and himself as dirt under my boots.

I see him as perfection, as beauty and simple grace, as my angel.

His dark hair, the boisterous way he talks and argues with me, those deep green eyes, the swaggering way he carries himself, and that beautiful voice, like music.

Everything.

Yes, he’s an annoying little shit.

He’s a total pain in my ass and does nothing but criticize my ideals and time-consuming speeches.

But he keeps me grounded, he helps me see reason, he keeps my head from getting too big, he makes me feel happy.

It’s odd, having not been happy since I was a mere child.

And while running away to Paris made me happy, it didn’t fulfill me the way Grantaire does.

Revolution consumes my mind and soul, Grantaire consumes my heart.

My heart swells when I see him, a smile tugs at the corner of my lips, I even find myself speechless.

I’m usually so composed, so prepared, but Grantaire always takes my breath away.

I’m impossibly lost in thought as I feel the warmth of Grantaire’s palm, my mind swirling with red and black.

I look around the cell, beaming at my brothers in arms.

All of us are here for the same reason.

Justice.

Revolution.

We are all proud to be fighting for our country, and I know we’re all proud of our inevitable death.

This is a less dignified martyrdom, but martyrdom all the same.

We don’t fall at the barricade, but we still fall with the words of freedom on our lips.

And I know we’re all prepared to share this fate.

At the barricade and when we were first captured I kept fretting that I forced them into this.

I assured them all they could leave, go have lives, not risk themselves so easily, but they all still stand with me.

And now, when we are beaten and scared we still know death is our duty.

Joly and Bossuet are holding each other, both of them silently sobbing over a lace handkerchief.

A possession of their shared mistress, Musichetta, is my guess. I know how much they love each other, and her.

I feel a fresh pang of guilt, it’s my fault they were torn apart.

She fell at the barricade, came at the last moment to see her lovers and ran in front of Bossuet, taking a bullet meant for him.

I know the Eagle easily blames himself, if not for his luck she would’ve been alive, by his logic.

But Joly is comforting him, and I know they are relishing in that they will see their beloved again soon.

I turn to where Jehan is sitting, fiddling with a needle and thread.

He is muttering under his breath, verses of poetry if I know him well enough.

He’s sewing the pattern of a flower into Grantaire’s cravat, strewn away by Courfeyrac after it released his wrists.

Bahorel and Feuilly are laughing about something.

Two opposites almost, yet there is no doubt they are meant for each other.

Bahorel, strong and always ready for a fight, flamboyant and garishly loud, loyal and protective of everyone in our group.

Feuilly, one whom I revere highly, a self-educated man of kindness and passion, an artisan and a sophisticate.

I admire their company, I admire everyone’s company.

Then there’s obviously Combeferre and Courfeyrac, my guide and center.

They complete me in ways Grantaire cannot, in a bond of brotherhood too strong to be broken by gunfire.

Combeferre, my logic, who always manages to remind me of the true goal, the true purpose.

Courfeyrac, my spirit, who fuels my optimism and passion.

And Grantaire, my perfect Grantaire.

He makes me feel like I’m not alone, he holds me close at night and kisses my neck.

I was never one for pleasures of the flesh.

I knew I fancied men from a young age, knew the consequences.

And as I grew, I simply didn’t have time for romance.

Law school and the ABC occupied my time.

And then I met Grantaire.

I found him crude at first, wondering why Bahorel would invite this drunk cynic to our sacred meetings.

He would constantly goad me into an argument, knowing every way to fire me up about whatever topic we were discussing that evening.

And the constant drink, if Grantaire has one flaw that is it.

Well, he has two flaws come to think of it.

I like to envision him perfect, but I do know he’s not.

After all, he’s human.

Like us all.

The drink bothers me, as I’m sober myself.

He finds the need to drown out life and passion with a bottle, and for months I didn’t know why.

I despised him for it, I’m ashamed to admit.

His second flaw is the reason why he drinks.

His self-worth, something he rarely seems to even have.

He truly sees himself as unworthy of me, unworthy of kindness from anyone.

He drinks to forget, drinks to fill the hole in his heart telling him he’ll never be good enough.

I don’t know his whole story, he never told me everything.

I don’t remember exactly when my loathing slowly changed to understanding, then the love I have now.

It was slow, I know that.

When I first started listening to him, actually hearing what he was saying, that’s how it started I suppose.

Because he is very intelligent.

He’s read wonderful works, has surprisingly deep and powerful perspectives and opinions on topics of politics, religion, freedom, revolution.

He can be pleasant to listen to when he isn’t shouting or standing on a table.

I remember one time, when I was leaving the Musain especially late one night, I tripped over Grantaire on the front step.

He was passed out right on the front step to the cafe.

I didn’t know what to do, I just stared.

Combeferre carried him home, but I remember I spent all night unable to get the image of Grantaire’s eyes out of my head.

He talks endlessly.

I remember a time he was too drunk to keep his guard up, he accidentally revealed his art.

Why he draws, paints, and sketches.

For him it’s a way to escape, to seemingly rid himself of all the emotions he has.

And yet also to show the beauty he sees, to show others what wonders his eyes see.

The light in the darkness, he said.

Although he followed up with a quarter of an hour describing all the darkness, all the awfulness in the world and how no picture could fix that.

How no schoolboys could fix that.

His words were slurred and his train of thought sloppy, but I still understood.

He has never felt good enough, he has always been berated for speaking up and sharing his opinions.

And all those bad thoughts in his head, those are what drives him to drink and distract.

To fill his brain with knowledge of drink and boxing and art and dance.

So he doesn’t have to think of the many things that ail him.

I never thought of it that way, I always thought that was simply who he was.

But I certainly don’t pity him, if that’s what you are thinking.

I don’t love him because I feel guilty he has suffered, we have all suffered.

I love him because of how he makes me feel.

He makes me reconsider my arguments and he makes me annoyed when he’s right and he makes me smile.

He’s the one thing I know I would miss in the world when death claims me.

The comfort is knowing he stands with me, we’ll be going together.

I think often of when our relationship first began.

I was working late on a paper, I thought I might just stay at the Musain all night.

He was there still, drinking and drawing.

“You hate me, don’t you?” He asked me suddenly.

I was shocked by the question.

Yes, we argue at every meeting, and I did resent him at first, but our bond has grown stronger than that.

He is still one of us, one of the friends of the ABC, his voice still matters.

He mattered to me more than I liked to admit at the time.

He had missed a meeting once, for whatever reason, I had been off that whole day.

I didn’t want to admit why, but it’s because he makes my heart feel full.

I don’t feel quite whole without him.

Fuck, Marius was right.

Anyways, he said that and I was dumbstruck.

“No.” I eventually managed to force out.

“You have no need to lie, Apollo.” He said, his voice flowing. “I know you wish I would just go. A worthless cynic, and a drunkard at that. Nothing but a nuisance to your perfect revolution.”

“No.” I said, stronger.

We talked for hours, my paper abandoned as well as his bottle.

He laughed whenever I would speak of his worth.

And eventually it grew to what must’ve been three in the morning. and I yawned.

He offered to show me to his flat, it was closer.

I said yes, and after another half hour we went.

He had spent the half hour agonizing over his offer, worried I thought he was trying to use me, or coerce me somehow, something of malicious intent.

I assured him that was not the case, which led my overtired brain to stupidly start preaching of his worth to me.

His beauty, his intelligence, all of it.

All he could do was stare at me, shocked that anyone could think such wonderful things of him.

“Might I kiss you, Grantaire?” I asked, my voice gentle.

My rants before had been harsh, frustrated at how low he thought of himself.

He nodded, and I matched my lips to his.

It wasn’t the best.

The feeling of someone else’s lips on mine, of a weird wetness as well as the smell of alcohol, and just the bit of awkwardness of neither of us knowing what to do.

Physically, it was an awful kiss.

I’ve never had a sex drive, but it actually developed slowly as I became closer to Grantaire.

That’s what made the kiss beautiful, the intimacy.

His warm breath on my face, his hand in my hair, my arm around his waist.

I felt so close to him at the moment, as if our souls were colliding.

I ended the kiss but kept him in my arms.

He was smiling stupidly, still shocked, and I laughed a bit at that.

I brought us to our feet and told him to lead us to his flat, which he did.

His flat was a mess, I found one spare spot to set down my papers and books.

“I don’t want to have sex with you.” I said, breaking our awkward silence.

He nodded. “I can take the floor-” He started to say, but I stopped him.

“I thoroughly enjoyed our kiss.” I assured him, knowing that was his worry. “I feel romantic feelings for you. While I don’t wish to have sex with you, I have never wished for sex with anyone, I would like to be close with you. Er- intimate. In a relationship, as Combeferre and Courfeyrac have. I’m not sure if I’ll eventually want sex, and I do apologize that I don’t want it at the time. But I do want to be close to you. Hold your hand, be physically and emotionally close. Perhaps more kisses. I feel very strongly for you, Grantaire. I enjoy your company, and you make me very happy. What do you wish to come of all this?”

Yes, I gave him a speech.

Probably stupid, but very me for what it’s worth.

“Do you permit it?” He said.

I smiled.

“I would like to cuddle you in your bed.” I said frankly.

“I would like that as well.” He smiled back.

I held him close in my arms all night.

We talked and laughed and I would kiss his neck and stroke his skin and the night was pure bliss.

He was worried again the next morning, and we talked again.

We talked about what our relationship would be, and I assured him again that I care for him.

I was surprised that he was alright with me not wanting sex, but he was very clear that he would never force me to do anything I didn’t want.

And then we kissed again, and the feeling was still new, but a bit more familiar.

The meeting at the Musain that night was something.

We walked in holding hands, but when I got up to start making speeches it was just like normal.

We argued and bickered like usual, and I felt as close to him when arguing as when we cuddled.

It was the most amazing feeling.

And the meeting ended, and Bahorel started up a song, and I made a decision.

It was just our group in the back room at the time, it was safe to.

I went right up to Grantaire and kissed him.

Courfeyrac and Feuilly cheered loudly, and when I pulled away Combeferre clapped me on the back.

Grantaire was blushing, and Bossuet laughed at that and ruffled his hair.

“Took you two long enough.” Jehan said, grinning wide.

I smile at the memory, remembering the warm support of my friends.

I lay down more comfortably next to Grantaire, still holding him.

His breathing is labored slightly, but gentle enough that I can tell he’s asleep.

I don’t close my eyes, but I let the pleasant memories stay flowing in my mind, helping me relax.

There will no doubt be more pain when morning comes, more speeches to give and perhaps even my own martyrdom, but for now I let myself think of Grantaire.

My love, my life, my sweet Grantaire.

No injustice or evil kings, just peace as I hold my R close.

*****

I wake up to Grantaire whimpering and shaking.

I sit up as gently as I can, to try not to move him too much.

He’s still asleep, as far as I can tell.

I see the reason for the problem, the bandages on his back are soaked through with blood.

“Combeferre.” I whisper urgently.

He’s asleep with Courfeyrac in his lap, and Jehan is curled up on top of them both.

“What do you need?” Feuilly asks.

“Grantaire needs new bandages.” I explain. “Is Joly up?”

“I am. Give me a moment.”   
Joly is examining Bossuet’s hand intently, and Bahorel is stifling a laugh while shuffling a deck of cards.

“He got a papercut playing cards.” Bahorel snickers.

“It could get infected. What if I have to cut off the finger?” Joly says worriedly.

“You don’t have to cut off the finger.” Bossuet says quickly. “Think my bad luck could make the cell wall collapse?”

“We can hope.” Bahorel chuckles.

“Joly.” I say, looking at him seriously.

“Yes.” He moves towards me and Grantaire and starts carefully pulling away the strips of Combeferre’s shirt serving as bandages.

Bahorel hands Joly his coat wordlessly.

Joly cleans Grantaire’s back again with the rest of the water in Feuilly’s flask and wraps up the wounds with Bahorel’s coat. As he finishes the knots, Grantaire stirs.

“Please-” He murmurs, still a bit delirious from sleep.

“It’s me, R. It’s Enjolras.” I tell him gently, stroking his curls.

“Enj…” He relaxes his shoulders, and he’s stopped shaking as much. He grimaces suddenly, his shoulders tensing. “Got any absinthe on you? Wine? Brandy? Anything?”

“Combeferre used the little bit Bahorel had to clean the worst of the cuts. Unless you would prefer gangrene?” Joly says.

“I’ll stick with sobriety.” Grantaire grumbles. “Although will it matter if it gets infected? I bet we’ll be dead by nightfall.”

Ah, and the cynicism returns.

A coping mechanism, I know, to deal with the trauma from what was no doubt torture, but still.

We know what we’re dying for, we should be proud.

I’m about to shoot a retort when the door to the cell slams open, the two guardsmen entering again.

“Ready to tell us who your leader is?” One of them sneers.

“The people lead us.” Feuilly says.

“Your revolution is no more! The people failed you, there is no point in these shenanigans.” The other guard says. “Give us the information we ask for and we might let you all go. Well, except your leader…”

“Vive la republique.” Bossuet says defiantly.

The first guard scowls, looks around the cell, and grabs the sleeping Jehan by the arm.

Jehan snaps awake, blinking repeatedly as he tries to get his bearings.

“This one’s prettier.” He snarls. “I’m sure he’d open his mouth with a little… convincing.”

My panic gives me pause, Grantaire is the first to react.

“Don’t touch him!”

“You made it clear you won’t talk. And I think my men would enjoy having someone prettier to interrogate today.” The second guard says to him.

Grantaire stammers.

“I am the leader, if you can call me that.” I say. “We are led by the people, but this group was my creation. If you have a quarrel with our cause, take it up with me.”   
The guard smiles and drops Jehan, who starts to protest.

“Enjolras-”

I shake my head at him.

I’m not letting them get tortured because of me.

“And you’re even prettier, didn’t take you for a brain.” The guard is smiling creepily.

“Don’t expect lashes to loosen my tongue, I stand proudly for my country. I take my death with pride.”

“And why’re you so close with him?” The second guard asks, nodding his head at Grantaire, whom I am still holding hands with. “Ugly fucker like him.”

The first guard laughs.

“Fucking queers, I knew that one was a fag when we whipped him. All too happy for us to strip him.”

Grantaire grits his teeth.

“You can at least give us the dignity to execute us like men.” Feuilly says, voice shaking a bit.

“The king might reward us for breaking your little group of insurgents.” The guard sneers, grabbing me.

Grantaire reaches for me, but the other guard kicks him away.

“Get the men, I want to torture the leader in front of his friends.” The guard holding me says, and with a laugh the second guard goes.

I am shoved roughly to my knees, head swimming.

Torture I can handle, torture I was prepared for, but for it to be done in front of my friends?   
My comrades who have become closer than brothers, who have joined me in this sacred battle?

Combeferre and Courfeyrac are finally waking up, looking around in confusion.

Joly moves to them and starts whisper-explaining what has happened.

And soon five more guards are swarming into the cell, they gather around the one who shoved me on the ground.

I imagine the painting Grantaire would make of this scenario, the colors and brush strokes he would use.

On one side of the room, the guards.

All of them standing tall in their uniforms, smug smiles as they look down on us.

And on our side, I am at the front, I lead.

On my knees, facing the guards, the first line of defense.

Behind me, my friends, our group, clustered together in the too small space.

We’re all filthy and covered in blood and bruises, none of us stand.

And yet I know without turning around that we all have determined expressions on our faces, all of us know what we are bound to face but know we cannot afford to show fear.

“This is the leader.” The guard who I’m assuming is the highest rank says, gesturing to me. “Think he’ll break as quick as the other one?”

“Let’s see if the rest of him is as pretty as his face, Marceau.” One guard snickers.

The rest of the guards laugh and jeer at that.

These are the king’s men?

Gavroche was more mature than them, these men are barbarians.

I’m certain now they didn’t keep us captive on orders, at least not this many of us for this long.

And while I’m not quite sure where we are, I know it’s not a jail.

“Clothes off, leader of the people.” The main guard, Marceau, commands, a smile at his lips.

“No.” I say, my voice just as cold.

The guard to the left of Marceau produces a knife.

“We had to cut off your boyfriend’s clothes too.” He grins.

Grantaire cries “No!” at that, and I flinch.

My hands shake as I unbutton my waistcoat. I fold it and hand it to Combeferre, then move on to my shirt.

“Good choice.” Marceau says approvingly.

I stand and hesitate a moment before removing my trousers as well, handing them to Combeferre again.

I move back to my knees.

“All of it.” Marceau says threateningly, and with my face burning in shame I stand again to shed my last item of clothing.

Combeferre takes my boxers silently as I kneel again, staring at the floor.

“So, he can follow the rules.” Marceau says approvingly.

I spit at his feet.

He kicks me in the stomach, and I double over in pain.

As I try to raise myself again, so I at least have some semblance of a confident posture, a boot presses down on my head, keeping me bent over.

There are more laughs as a swish of fabric is heard, and I feel sudden blinding pain across my back.

A belt.

I bite my lip so as not to cry out in pain, but Marceau doesn’t stop.

I think I hear a gasp from behind me, but I’m too focused on keeping myself grounded.

I cannot show weakness.

Combeferre and I talked of this, on some lonely nights when we were the only two left at the Musain.

We discussed our inevitable deaths, and no doubt what pain we would have to endure.

We agreed that no matter what we would face, we would face it and not give in.

We will die like men, we will take our torture proudly for our patria.

The lashes rain down on my back, and I let each remind me of the new world that can be created.

I eventually feel something trickling down my back, blood, I realize.

I’m assuming it’s Joly who I can hear nearly hyperventilating.

“Your people abandoned you.” Marceau says above me. “They leave you to suffer, they care nothing of your cause.”

“Let my corpse fertilize the seeds that will become the free world.” I say, head still pinned to the floor by Marceau’s boot.

“This is pointless. We’re wasting time doing this.” I hear a guard grumble.

“They won’t talk.” Another guard assents. “Let’s just kill them, there’s not enough space in the jail for them.”   
Is that why we are wherever we are?

“Aw, I thought we were gonna have some fun. Put these rebels in their place, if you know what I mean.” Yet another guard says roughly.

He can’t mean-

Grantaire mentioned-

“There are plenty of whores in Paris better than these schoolboys.” One of the first guards says.

“Aw, c’mon…” The other guard drawls. “Look at their leader, I’m sure he feels like a girl.”   
“Enough.” Marceau growls. “We’ve gotten no information and it’s clear they won’t talk. He’ll get a bullet in his head if that’s what he wants, they all will. If he won’t break after fifty lashes, he never will.”

Fifty lashes? Was it really that much? I can barely feel it.

“Let’s get them outside.” Marceau says, hauling me to my feet.

“Please!” A shaky voice cries out.

Grantaire.

“Give him the dignity of clothes, you have that much of a soul at least.” Grantaire pleads.

It’s odd, hearing him beg.

It’s something Grantaire has never stooped to, something I never thought he would.

For him to believe in something so much he’d beg?   
But he always did believe in me above all else.

“Fine.” Marceau spits, and he shoves me at Grantaire.

Grantaire takes my clothes from Combeferre and lets me dress myself, helping me as little as he can.

I’m grateful for it, I don't want my last freedom taken from me.

“Everyone up.” Marceau orders.

Grantaire and I stand together, leaning on each other for support.

Spots swirl in my eyes as we’re led outside by the guards, and I realize the whole time we were in the Musain.

I can see the remnants of the barricade strewn about the street, blood staining the cobblestones.

We line up, and I feel Combeferre’s hand slide into mine.

He squeezes, and I squeeze back.

We’re in one line, all of us together, facing a firing squad.

This is what I imagined. I think Grantaire even drew it once.

“Any last words?” Marceau smirks.

“Vive la France.” Bahorel’s gruff voice asserts loudly.

“Vive la Poland!” Feuilly says proudly.

“Long live the future.” Jehan’s voice flows, graceful and composed.

“A toast to the new world.” Bossuet says jovially.

“To good luck and good health.” Joly adds, and I can practically hear his smile.

“To wine and women, to the death of the king and the people’s martyrs!” Courfeyrac cries out.

“To freedom.” Combeferre says simply.

“Vive la Republique!” Grantaire says from my other side. “Vive l’amour! Long live wine, love, revolution! Long live the harlots and the faggots! Long live my mistress’s mistress patria, long live Apollo!”

I straighten up at his little speech, drawing strength from it.

“Vive la France! Vive le peuple!” I finish strongly, turning my head to all my brothers in arms. “Vive l’ABC, l’abaisse.”

Eight shots, the smell of powder.

The world is red and black.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed! :)


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